


La Petite Prompts

by bun_o_ween



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-06 11:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bun_o_ween/pseuds/bun_o_ween
Summary: A collection of prompts and drabbles inspired by La Petite Mort. Reading LPM before-hand is highly recommended.





	1. La Tempête

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, I often answer prompt requests on my Tumblr, or write needless, excessive back-stories... I decided to post some to AO3, so you guys can have a sticky beak too.

Sebastian jolts awake in the middle of the night.

It’s the thunder that wakes him, but lightning cuts the sky the moment he opens his eyes. The cottage is suddenly bathed in bright, blue light and the priest shivers involuntarily. He’s 30 years old but storms still give him the creeps. He hears thunder rumble in the distance as the room goes dark again, hears heavy rain splat across the roof. In the darkness he sees the bushes outside shiver and shake across the windows. His heart betrays him and starts to beat out of control.

He’s so nervous of the lightning that he doesn’t notice the body beside him until the sky lights up electric again. For a split second he sees Ciel, curled up on his side on the mattress. He instinctively curls closer to him, so close that their bent knees almost touch. The bedroom is warm, balmy with the slumbering fire and the electricity outside. Ciel feels even warmer, hot breaths skating out to touch the back of the priest’s knuckles. He wants Ciel to wake up, but he doesn’t dare disturb him. Thunder cracks across the sky, shakes the whole cottage and Sebastian inhales sharply. He flinches, the bed shakes and when the lightning lights up the room again he sees two odd eyes, open and awake a few inches from his face.

“Bastian?” He whispers, groggy. He balls his fist into his injured eye, rubs at it because it always aches when he first wakes up. It’s dark again, only dancing tongues of light illuminate the pair.

“Yeah,” he mutters. He doesn’t know what else to say, he feels so flighty. Ciel reaches out his hand in the dark, pats blindly until he taps Sebastian’s chin. He gives it a little squeeze, navigates upwards to find the priest’s hair and to brush it behind his ear.

“Are you scared?” He whispers kindly. It’s rare to hear the boy so gentle, so he nods into the touch. Ciel’s hand is steady, breaths steady too. He isn’t scared the slightest and that makes Sebastian feel ten million times better. Ciel’s hand touches his neck when the light flashes again, Sebastian’s throat jumps under the boy’s touch and something about his heavy swallow makes Ciel wake up properly. He sits up a little bit, starts wriggling towards the priest. He knows, because the bed wobbles.

Then Ciel is pressing their chests together, ducking his head into the space between Sebastian’s neck and shoulder. One of his arms slides around Sebastian’s waist, the other pins prettily between them. The priest releases a shaky breath and puts his hands on Ciel’s lower back to steady him. Like a cat, Ciel’s affection is unexpected and somewhat suspicious. Sebastian doesn’t move a muscle, scared that he’ll spook Ciel and the boy will leave. He only shifts his hands, puts his thumbs into the little dip of his back. When the thunder cracks above them, Sebastian breathes in and Ciel wriggles in even closer. One of his skinny legs slips between the priest’s, brings them closer than they’ve ever been. His hands tighten on Ciel’s back as the boy rubs little circles onto his ribs. The fabric under his hands shifts noisily, louder than the rain.

When the sky lights up again, Ciel takes the opportunity to ease Sebastian’s blankets down. The priest is shirtless, the air is nice on his warm chest. The boy pushes the linen down to his hips, lets his nails scrape against the skin on his back. Then his hand goes to the scar on his ribs, Sebastian knew he’d touch there first. Ciel’s obsessed with it. He traces the little scar and the priest sucks air in through grit teeth. He hardly flinches when thunder shakes the cottage this time.

“You’re warm,” Ciel murmurs. His fingers are bored of the horse scar, he lets them dip into his bellybutton, smooth against the skin above his pants. He’s not surprised, he feels so much hotter with Ciel pressed up against him. He can feel his balmy skin under the shirt he’s wearing.

“Are you warm?” Sebastian asks. His hand, still behind Ciel’s back, ruck up the tail of his shirt a little. Ciel raises his head, eyes the priest coyly.

“Yeah,” he breathes, but he’s smiling, like he’s lying. He takes his pretty hand off his stomach and starts plucking the buttons off his shirt. Sebastian goes rigid, hardly moves as Ciel unbuttons his shirt, starts to wriggle it off his shoulders. Sebastian has to take his hands off him when he throws the shirt off the bed, but when he brings his hands down he’s met with warm, smooth skin. He clenches his hands impulsively, Ciel inhales too quick. He shifts closer again, and Sebastian thinks he’s going to be sick when he pushes their naked stomachs together. Thunder cracks, the room goes blue and Ciel is breathing hard next to him, fingers splayed over the heaving swell of Sebastian’s pecs.

“You okay?” The priest mumbles. He sees Ciel nod, hears him finally release the breath he’s been holding in. He feels impossibly small, he can feel his ribs rising and falling against him. Sebastian smoothes his palms over his tiny waist, over the dip in his back, up between his shoulder blades. When the thunder rolls this time he doesn’t even notice it, because Ciel is panting.

“Sebastian,” he breathes. His head tips back onto the cradle of Sebastian’s bicep and his hair spills out over his arm. The priest cups his head, keeps him still against his body as he uses his free hand to smooth over the quivering flesh of his belly.

“Ciel,” he mutters back. The boy’s eyes are half shut, mouth open like he’s in pain. His hand is still pinned between their chests, the other hand is touching his collarbone, his throat. Sebastian tugs him closer, easily dragging the little thing tight against his body. Ciel makes a sound, presses his nose into the priest’s throat and Sebastian can feel his breath there, hot and sticky.

Having Ciel plastered to his side should have felt indecent, should have been revolting enough to make him stop but it didn’t. Ciel’s breaths, his pupils blown wide in the dark, his small nails leaving marks on the priest’s back, one’s he’d feel under his clothes tomorrow. It was easy enough to dip his fingers into the back of Ciel’s trousers, only enough to make the boy’s breath hitch and his back curve out the way the priest dreams about. He keeps two of his fingers tucked under his beltline, lets Ciel make tiny, hurt sounds in his ear, like a wounded animal.

“Do you like that?” Sebastian ducks his head so he can whisper into Ciel’s hair.

“Yeah,” Ciel makes the most illicit noise and holds onto Sebastian with shaking palms. Sebastian wants to slip his hand in further and grab his tiny ass. He wants to force Ciel onto his back, wants to swallow the wounded sounds right out of his mouth. He wants to smother Ciel into the linen, wants to tug his hair so hard he yelps. But instead he holds him up against his sweat-damp body, fingers ducked into his trousers as they both try catch their breath.

Ciel’s fingers are back on his scar, ticklish. The priest loosens his grip on him, untucks his fingers and lets them dwell on his lower back instead. “Why do you like that scar so much?” He asks, much calmer. Ciel’s breathing is irregular, like he was running. His lungs are more delicate than Sebastian’s, all of him is.

“It’s the only thing wrong with you,” Ciel replies, his voice raspy. Sebastian knows that isn’t true but his heart sings despite it.


	2. Il Regarde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: "Hey um... why don't you write a prompt about Sebastian watching Ciel get fucked by another man? Like whatever, you don't have to... it's not like you sent yourself this anon ask anyway, huh. Bonus points if you chuck in Sebastian getting jealous."

Ciel’s apartment is his antithesis.

It’s big and empty. It’s ugly in it’s emptiness, and it’s void of anything beautiful. There’s a pile of books stacked crooked on the bedside, a half-drunk cup of tea on top. Ciel himself is on the bed, against the headboard as he lights his cigarette. He shakes the match, lets the smoke dissipate and then passes it to Sebastian. The priest takes it, swallows before putting it between his dry lips. He inhales, he coughs. He always coughs, and Ciel laughs loudly.

“You gotta go,” Ciel says after he’s calmed down. It’s getting dark, the apartment lingering on the last rays of sunlight. The priest ashes the cigarette into the ashtray - it’s plain and full.

“Why?” He says dumbly even though it’s Saturday night and he knows Ciel has things to do. He can tell from the way he’s dressed, white shirt and scrubbed face, a paradigm of viriginity. He looks pretty, ready for a stranger to come along and ruin that. He knows that Ciel is rolling his eye without looking up.

“Someone is coming over,” he explains, using a low and serious voice. Sebastian passes the cigarette back to him, exhales into the bedroom the same colour as the smoke. The sun behind Ciel’s hair makes him look like he’s on fire. The priest can’t help the dull, hunger-like pang of jealousy in his gut.

“Tell them no,” Sebastian states. Ciel laughs hard again, rolls his head back to hit the cracked plaster of the walls. His mouth is curved up, he licks his lips and puts the smoke between them.

“Gimme a reason,” Ciel teases. He lets his head lull to the side, fixes him with that challenging expression. It’s a game they always play - _gimme a reason not to whore myself out tonight, Bastian_. The reasons are never good enough, but Sebastian always plays.

“Let’s go to the city. Buy a bottle of rum and get drunk on the hillside,” he suggests, seeing Ciel’s mouth twitch up in interest. He thinks he’s in for a chance but then the boy waves his hand dismissively. He makes to sit up on the bed, Sebastian’s heart sinks.

“I ‘ave to pay rent, you gotta go,” he says in the serious tone. Sebastian doesn’t get up. He stays where he is, against the head of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing his waistcoat, sleeves rolled up over the elbow. He crosses his arms and cocks his head.

“No,” he says. Ciel’s eye widens as he gets off the bed. He looks at Sebastian for a long time, waiting to see if he’s playing a joke. The priest gives him a hard look, tilts his chin up at him. There’s a knock at the door and Ciel jerks his head towards the sound.

“Get out,” he warns again before leaving his bedroom and stomping down the stairs. Sebastian listens to the door open, hears two sets of shoes coming up the hall and his heart starts to pound in his chest. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Before he can change his mind Ciel is back, and there’s a man behind him. He’s tall, with brown hair, he’s unremarkable and he doesn’t intimidate Sebastian. The priest doesn’t look at him for long, he stares at Ciel who is seething.

The stranger says something in French and Ciel _tsks_ , jerking his head at the stubborn priest on the bed. He replies, hears Ciel says his name and then the stranger speaks again. He can’t speak the language but he can tell the other is nervous.

“Are you going to watch?” Ciel says to him, but he’s looking at the stranger. He’s touching his chest, soothing his fingers over the front of the man’s cheap suit. Sebastian huffs, hates the amused sound in Ciel’s voice.

“If that’s what it takes to make you stop,” he grits. Ciel turns his head, curls a finger through the front of the stranger’s belt loop. He smiles.

“I’m not going to stop,” he promises, then presses an open-mouthed kiss to the stranger’s Adam’s apple. The priest’s tongue lolled inside his mouth as he watches. The stranger grunts, puts his hands on Ciel’s tiny waist and curls his hands into him - like he owns him. Ciel helps the stranger out of his coat, shrugs it off his arms and chucks it at Sebastian. It lands across his lap but the priest is still staring at the back of Ciel’s head.

The stranger groans, and Sebastian can see Ciel’s hand against the front of his trousers, fingers curled between his legs and the heel of his thumb grinding into him. His cheeks prickle, he feels hot and he grinds his teeth. He plucks the half-consumed smoke from the ashtray and sucks at it until it’s alive again, resurrecting smoke into his jealous lungs. Ciel starts whispering shit into the stranger’s ear and whatever he says makes the other crazy - makes him dig his hands into Ciel’s ass.

Sebastian stares. Really fucking stares. He watches the stranger’s fingers curl around each of his cheeks, watches him spread Ciel apart and dig his fingers in rougher, deeper. Ciel’s back trembles, he arches out and rakes his nails down the other’s spine. He mutters things in French that the priest _knows_ are curses. He turns his head, looks at Sebastian over his shoulder and he smirks. Sebastian smokes, returns the smirk with a tight-lipped, sarcastic smile. He narrows his eyes and settles back on the bed.

Then the stranger has Ciel’s shirt off, his beautiful waist vulnerable to the drag of the other’s hands. He twists prettily, arches his spine like Sebastian imagined he would, makes a hot sound in his throat. The stranger grabs his ass again, squeezes it with one hand as he roughly pulls Ciel’s pants undone. He tugs at them, brings them down enough to reveal Ciel isn’t wearing underwear.

He didn’t think it’d go this far. His face goes hot, the cigarette dangles uselessly between his fingers as Ciel’s trousers are yanked half way down his ass. He’s milk all over, flawless, his ass as pale as his back, pink where the stranger has groped him. Ciel squirms, presses himself close to the stranger and looks back at Sebastian. Their eyes don’t meet because the priest isn’t looking at his face.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Ciel murmurs, angry and in English and the priest looks up, refusing to blush.

“Don’t swear,” he mouths, ignores the way he sees the stranger touch Ciel again. His hands slip down the back of his trousers, grab Ciel so hard he makes a filthy sound. The boy is red in the face, coyer than the priest imagined him to be in bed. The idea makes him grunt, crumple the smoke into oblivion. He glares at the other man’s unremarkable face and when he looks up, Sebastian scowls.

…………………………………………………………….

“He’s staring at me,” the brunette whispers. Ciel doesn’t know his name, doesn’t care. He looks over his shoulder and sees Sebastian staring down the stranger and can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” Ciel breathes. His hips jerk against his will when the stranger brushes his fingers between the crease of his ass. It’s mortifying, he wishes Sebastian would go but the priest is still staring. He’s seething, teeth bared and primal, muscles in his arms tense and prominent. It makes him hotter, and hotter.

“He’s _staring at me_ ,” the stranger insists and he stops touching Ciel and goes still against the wall. Ciel twists his head, sees Sebastian leaning forward. He looks feral, Ciel feels a shiver run up his spine. The brunette drops him, pushes him back and swallows so hard it’s audible. Ciel’s hand slips out the waistband of his pants, the man’s not hard anymore. Ciel however, is aching.

“What the fuck are you doing…” Ciel seethed at both of them, Sebastian is getting off the bed and the brunette is backing further into the wall.

“I’m going,” he says, staring at Ciel’s rising chest, regretful. He takes another look at the priest who is at the foot of the bed, stranger’s jacket clenched in his fist.

“Take this,” Sebastian tells him, in heavily accented French. He tosses the jacket so hard it hits the stranger in the face, forces him back a step before he backs off - out the door and out of Ciel’s life. Ciel is so stunned, so angry that he can’t even look at Sebastian. He feels his jaw tense up, hears Sebastian breathing heavy at his back.

“Are you ‘appy?” He says to Sebastian. His face burns with embarrassment, he feels like he’s fifteen again. He’s waiting for the angry words, a slap. Instead Sebastian grabs him from behind and forces him to turn, starts yanking his pants up his hips and buttoning them shut. Ciel doesn’t know why he lets him, why he turns to putty every time the priest touches him.

“Said I wasn’t going to leave,” he states, casts a look over Ciel’s naked chest and then up to his face. Ciel is still breathing hard, so angry he doesn’t know how to talk without hurting him.

“This is my _job_ Bastian,” he almost shouts but he’s scared he’ll start crying if he does. He’s a live wire, he’s exposed, vulnerable, nervous. His throat feels tight, he wants to hit Sebastian as hard as he wants to kiss him. Sebastian offers him something instead, a small fold of leather.

Ciel takes it, flips it over to see it’s a wallet - it’s the stranger’s wallet. He suddenly laughs, so sharp it startles Sebastian. He’s in shock. When he opens it, it’s full of money. Money he would have spent on a whore. It’s so funny that Ciel can’t stop laughing, he looks from the wallet to Sebastian and can’t believe his fucking eye.

“You _stole_ this from ‘im?” Sebastian raises his chin, stoic as always. He looks so hot, so serious that Ciel wants to kiss him. His exposed forearms, his hair tucked behind his ear because it’s getting so long and he won’t trim it. Probably doesn’t know enough French to go to a barber but Ciel likes how long it is. He stole a fucking wallet, his priest stole for him.

“Let’s go to the city,” he says and Ciel swallows. He doesn’t know what to do other than to nod, to look at the burden of the theft in his palm and nod.

“Drinks on ‘im,” Ciel decided and Sebastian finally smiled. It was so pure, gorgeous. Ciel was impressed, in awe. He was in love.


	3. La Robe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Don't know if you're still taking LPM prompts, but you know that official artwork with Ciel in his pink dress being prepped and preened by hands all around him like a dress-up doll while he sits all sultry-like? Yeah, that one. Can you do something inspired by that with our beautiful Princess Ciel and Sebas-chan?"

“It doesn’t fit,” Sebastian muttered. He took a sip of rum, hoping it would quell the tremble in his voice.  
  
The liquid burnt his lips, made him hum deep in his chest as he stared at the boy over the rim of the crystal glass. Ciel was drowning in blue satin. The pale fabric swathed his slim figure, bunched up in blue, creased clouds against the floor. He was kneeling, preening in front of an age mottled mirror, tugging at the elaborate sides of the dress.

“I’m too fat,” Ciel said in shock, trying again to clasp the front of the dress. In the mirror reflection Sebastian could see him hold his breath before squeezing it around his waist again. “It’s all your fucking feeding Bastian,” he hissed, shooting a dirty look over his shoulder. The dress stopped under his arms – cut low across the back of his shoulders and exposed his frail collarbone. His eyeball tattoo sat perfect on his flawless back. Sebastian grunted.

“You’re not fat enough,” he mumbled, glass warming in his hands. He tried to stare out the window, at the setting city skyline. Tried to act like he wasn’t glaring at Ciel like a cut of meat. The other laughed, breathless from the corset half tied around his waist. His fingers kept pulling at the strings, arms bent awkwardly behind him. Sebastian glared at the crease between his shoulders, skin drawn together by the cinch of the bodice. He put his glass down on the window sill, stalked over to Ciel like he hadn’t been fantasizing about doing this all evening.

“Keep still,” he said, taking the corset strings out of Ciel’s hands. He looped the ropes over his knuckles, gave a weak tug to test the restraint. Ciel shifted, sat up straighter and dug his little fingers into the folds of the gathered dress around him. Sebastian looked over his shoulder, into the mirror to catch the boy’s reflection. He looked pretty. More pretty than usual, with raw bitten lips and his hair pinned against his head in a way that made him look remarkably feminine. The dress, the hair, the cheap perfume on his throat. He looked like a whore. A lump formed in Sebastian’s throat. Ciel looked up, both eyes catching Sebastian’s through the mirror. Then the priest pulled hard at the corset strings and Ciel fell forward onto his hands.

Ciel screamed, cried out without breath as his back bent under the force of Sebastian’s grip. He swore, thick and heavy and in French. Sebastian tightened the strings, watched Ciel’s waist become impossibly thinner. The boy’s breath hit the mirror, his mouth parted and he made a sound so filthy that the priest blushed. He felt the corset close but he kept pulling, sweat forming on the back of his neck when Ciel started grunting.

“Stop,” Ciel breathed. Sebastian froze, strings still curled around his knuckles. His palms burnt, biceps twitched with effort. Ciel swallowed air like water and Sebastian tied the corset in place. He raked shameless eyes over the little figure, pushed his hands up on his hips to squeeze his fingers around the boy.

“Don’t go out like this,” he muttered into the back of Ciel’s hair. The boy turned to look at him, mouth tugged down in that familiar, rebellious curl. He was panting still, lips wet with spit. The sight made Sebastian shudder, made him desperate to force the look of Ciel’s face.

“Why?” Ciel asked. He didn’t blink, just stared hard at the priest like he was daring him to admit something. Sebastian looked down at his mouth, his collar, his elegant wrists, his knuckles dusted pink. Sebastian shook his head, didn’t take his hands off the miniature of Ciel’s waist even as the boy moved back against his chest.

“Men shouldn’t see you like this,” he said dumbly into hair that smelt like soap. Ciel huffed, slid his delicate hands to rest over the back of Sebastian’s. The priest opened his fingers, let their hands tangle together easily. Ciel squeezed his hand, pressed back until they were glued hip to shoulder. His little body was hot in his lap. He leaned into it, sighed inaudibly into the invitation of Ciel’s body. The boy’s fingers tensed in his dress, pulling aside layers of satin to reveal his milky legs.

“Don’t go,” Sebastian begged, rum talking on his behalf. The boy’s breath hitched, he backed further up Sebastian’s lap until he was right on top of him, the heat of his spread legs over the priest’s crotch.

“Give me a reason to stay,” Ciel said, looking down at the priest’s hands with big eyes. He wet his lips. He looked scared. Sebastian didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Shut his mouth tight so nothing escaped him or betrayed him. He had nothing to give to Ciel, so he exhaled over the nape of his neck. He shook his head.

Ciel went stiff. His eyes widened, eyelashes heavy. His face fell when Sebastian took his hands off him and then he lowered his lids, let the familiar expression of distaste distort his features. He revoked his hot body from Sebastian’s, let the fondness fall from his eyes. The chance was gone, the moment lost. The priest’s heart sunk down into the depths of his chest.


	4. L'histoire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciel and Adrian's backstory - here it is, the horrible truth.

This all starts with 25-year-old undertaker. This guy is handsome ( _we’ve all seen BOTA_ ) but he’s got a bad personality and smells like literal death. He’s not married. He’s never had a date – he doesn’t have the time because it’s the late 1800s and people drop dead from the common cold. He’s a virgin too.

Imagine how this guy feels, as he’s carting corpses into the morgue and discovers a tiny, six-year-old boy ( _who looks at him like he’s a savior, his hero_ ). He totally intended to hand the brat over to the police, but the little thing follows him like a baby duck, clinging to the back of his robes. He takes Ciel upstairs, tucks him into his own bed, then goes downstairs and puts his parents into coffins. He really did intend to hand him over… but when he finishes up another long, repetitive day of work and comes upstairs to find a sweet, cute kid waiting for him? Man, he can’t do it. Ciel’s the closest thing to family he’ll ever get, and he doesn’t want to put him in an orphanage.

Ciel is shy, and quiet. He gets reoccurring bouts of asthma, and doesn’t eat very much. He’s terrified of corpses, so he sits around the corner from the undertaker’s workshop and talks to him. When a kid dies, undertaker washes the clothes and gives them to Ciel. Some leave deceased estates, he starts collecting books for the kid – who he discovers is fiercely intelligent and starts picking up English from books. When the kid gets sick he gets into Adrian’s bed. The undertaker isn’t affectionate, but Ciel fucking dotes on him. His word is law, he can say anything and Ciel believes him, absorbs his every word with unwavering trust.

Then he gets sick, and one of those eyes are gone, and suddenly undertaker’s bank account is depleted just so the kid can have a creepy, glass eye. He doesn’t like to admit he was scared shitless when Ciel went under the knife. He let the kid sleep in his bed, stroked his hair, whispered to him when he cried. He hand fed him to health, tied his shoes, cleaned his little knees when he scraped them, trimmed his hair, made him warm milk and honey.

He knew Ciel was gonna be trouble as soon as he hit adolescence. He was a pretty kid, but fuck, as soon as he lost that baby fat… man, he knew he was gonna be _devastatingly_ handsome – just like his dead dad. Ciel didn’t go to school, so he started to wander around the neighborhood, get into all sorts of trouble. He was maybe 12 when Adrian caught him with a cigarette. He’d never had to discipline Ciel before, didn’t know HOW to discipline a child. So he beat the shit out of him. Slapped the smoke right out of his mouth, beat the back of his thighs with his belt. Ciel screamed. The undertaker felt horrible, couldn’t look at the kid for days.

But then the little fuck did it again, kept smoking, didn’t even attempt to hide it from his guardian – like he was doing it on purpose. He beat him more, harder, he bled. The harder he hit him, the more Ciel would smoke. The brat was defiantly stubborn.

He knew Ciel was hanging out at bars. He was so little, like thirteen or so, but he had all the bartenders and whores curled around his finger. The bartenders gave him tiny glasses of whiskey, never enough to hurt him but enough to get his cheeks ruddy. He caught him a few times, dragged him out by his ear, slapped the rude little smirk off his son’s face. Ciel laughed at him, he squeezed his throat until the noise stopped.

Sometimes he took it too far. He’d smack his head against the wall, the little thing would crumple and fall to the floor. Adrian always panicked, stroked his face until he woke up again, muttered he was sorry into his hair, spoilt him with tea, new shoes, books. He just wanted him to stop being bad. The older he got, the worse he behaved. He expected it. What happened to Ciel as a kid, and the way he was raised? With no school, no adoration, no friends? He was destined to be rotten.

But when he discovered Ciel had traded sex for cigarettes- he fucking lost it. He was too little, barely fifteen, and he sucked off some stranger for cigarettes. Adrian beat his legs so hard he couldn’t leave the house. He beat him so hard that Ciel even apologised. He sobbed into the sheets as Adrian’s fingers twitched, desperate to comfort him. He said he didn’t _know_ what he was doing, that he _hated_ it, that he’d _never_ do it again. Adrian couldn’t blame him… he was only a kid. His kid.

But Ciel didn’t stop. No matter what Adrian said or did, no matter the threats or the violence he inflicted. Ciel graduated from petty smokes to money, sex. It broke his fucking heart, seeing him reading, chatting away to him like everything was normal but his neck was littered in hickies. Every time he looked at Ciel, he saw that sweet little kid. He saw how badly he’d fucked up in raising him. Saw all his earthly mistakes embodied in a skinny, imperious teenager. He didn’t know how the kid could be so dirty, yet keep his nose raised like he was the earl of fucking England.

Despite the prostitution, the drinking, the smoking, the sailor mouth… undertaker was still there to clean his skinned knees, stroke his hair when he got asthma. He still fixed him milk and honey, called him an _ungrateful fucking slut_ as he handed it to him – but he still did it. Then Ciel tipped the scales, and everything got so fucking messy.

He’d been living out of home for two months. Adrian let him rent the empty storage building next door, the one he kept half-formed coffins and barrels of chemicals beneath. Told the kid if he was gonna act like an adult, he could pay rent like an adult. Figured that Ciel would discover how tough the real world is and come crawling back to him. He was right. It only took two months for the kid to blow all his money on alcohol, drugs, who fucking knows. He’d just hit sixteen, had a dumb tattoo on his back. Was the perfect pinnacle of recklessness and physical beauty.

He showed up at the workshop, lingered in the door way, chewed at his lip like he did when he was a kid. _I can’t pay rent_ , he said. Adrian told him he could sleep on the streets. Ciel made this indignant sound, like it was so below him. Undertaker remembers his exact words.

_I’m not arguing with you about this. Find a way to pay me, or sleep out on the street._

Likewise, he never forgot the way Ciel looked up at him, took a nervous breath in and said _I’ll let you fuck me_. God, he felt sick. He felt hot all over, with rage and something else. Nauseous. He slapped Ciel so hard the kid yelped. Told Ciel he thought he was disgusting, that he was practically his child, he fucking raised him. _Practically_ , Ciel had muttered.

Adrian shoved him against the wall, dug his fingers into his arms, hurt him, tried to force an apology out his mouth but none came. The heat consumed him, he felt so fucking angry and… man, Ciel didn’t fight him. He was so beautiful. He hated him so much. He turned the kid around, pressed him face first into the walls of the morgue and pushed his pants down his slim, coltish thighs. He heard him sigh, surprised and nervous. His hands held Adrian’s, guided them down his hips, his smooth skin burning under him, between his legs until the kid was whimpering, pressing his back against his chest. _Touch me_ , he kept begging. He touched him, rough, inelegantly. He hurt him on purpose but Ciel kept making those fucking sounds. Even now the kid trusted him. He felt so sweet, everything crumbled out of his control.

He opened his own trousers with a shaking hand, spat on himself, forced himself inside the kid without any kind of preparation but Ciel took it, started backing up against him before he could catch his breath. He would’ve come straight away if he wasn’t so angry. He could smell Ciel’s hair under his nose, slid his hands up under his shirt, felt his belly, his ribs, dipped his fingers into his bellybutton. Ciel couldn’t shut his mouth, the sounds he made. He kept saying his name, said it so sweet, the same way he said it as a child. Adrian grabbed his neck, choked him so he’d shut up. Squeezed his neck so hard that he was forced up against his chest, head back, saw his face. His lips were open, eye glassed over. He looked so pretty, he couldn’t breath. Adrian squeezed harder, and Ciel came, _hard_. He didn’t let go of his neck as the kid spasmed on him, his lips going blue. He didn’t let go until he came inside him, Ciel looked so scared before he passed out, Adrian still inside him.

After that it was so messy. Ciel seemed to run out of money every week. He’d drop down on his knees for him, put his pretty mouth on him. Lay on his belly, raise up on his hands and knees like an animal. He fucked him in his bed. He loathed it as much as he looked forward to it. Once, when he had Ciel on his back, legs spread, forced up inside him – he hit him across the face.

He loved him. He hated him. He started to feel sick when he saw men come and go from his apartment. He tried to make that feeling go away, he pressed Ciel’s face into the mattress so he wouldn’t have to see him. He smothered him. He bit him. Sometimes Ciel would ask for money, and Adrian would hit him until he fell down. Sometimes Ciel didn’t come when he fucked him. Sometimes he went limp, like a doll, and hardly made a sound.

He got taller, thinner. Got a look in his eye that was tired, dark. He flinched when Adrian raised his hand, the undertaker hated it. He hit him for flinching. He hit him if he asked for it slow, gentle. He told him he’d kill him if he left him, that he’d murder him if he tried to run away.

Sometimes Ciel ignored him. Other times he put his hands on him, gentle. He still had that sweet face, he’d promise him ( _in gorgeous whispers_ ) that he’d never leave him. He believed him. Then he turned eighteen, and that priest started showing up… and Ciel looked at him the way he used to look at Adrian.

Like he was his saviour. His hero.


	5. La Blessure

One minute he’d been drinking - the next he was dripping blood all over the floorboards.

Sebastian leaned back into the sofa, hand up in the air with bloody tendrils spiralling slowly down his wrist. His shirt-sleeve was slowly turning red. He could still feel the glass, embedded into the palm of his hand when he wiggled his fingers in the cool evening air.

“Stop moving!” Ciel’s voice was wobbly, thick with worry. He was up on Sebastian’s lap, knees either side of his hips, ass planted on the top of his thigh. It was this position that got him into trouble in the first place. They’d been drinking, Ciel got up to refill his glass and when he came back to the sofa he sat on Sebastian’s lap instead. The priest took one look at the kid, legs spread and mouth wet with liquor and with a loud _pop_ the crystal glass of whiskey exploded in his hand.

Now Ciel’s got his hair tied back to keep it out of his face. It looks hot like this, pulled tight into a messy bun. His own blood is smeared on the edge of the teenager’s face and it makes the priest feel even drunker. He keeps casting nervous, worried glances at Sebastian, all the while plucking glass out of the cut on his hand. It hurts, but the priest is drunk… and Ciel is sitting in his lap.

“Sorry nurse,” he apologises. He licks his lips when Ciel tenses his jaw. The boy takes a deep breath, and pinches another bit of glass out of his hand. More blood trickles out of the cut and Ciel’s fingers incidentally smear it across their conjoined hands.

“You’re taking good care of me,” he says when Ciel doesn’t reply. Ciel wrinkles his nose, gives him _a look_ between his raised fingers.

“Shut up,” he clips - voice quiet. His fingers are trembling, Sebastian notices, as he thumbs the last of the shards from his skin. His pretty breaths are coming out uneven, the priest can see his shoulders shake in the dim candlelight. He looks pale, sickly - not the usual lily-white. His hairline is dotted with sweat despite the icy breeze. The teenager goes into shock, his face a facade of indifference.

“Ciel, look at me.” Nothing. His eyebrows knit as he ties a bandage around Sebastian’s blood-stained skin. The priest nudges Ciel’s face with his fingers, blood smears the boy’s half-open mouth. 

“I said look at me.” Ciel raises his eye obediently this time, vision of terror. He tries desperately to hide it but he’s only young - the shock spills out his features, out his trembling lips and wells in the corner of his unwavering eye. Sebastian is dead sober now, he leans forward and keeps Ciel’s chin in place with the hand he so lovingly put back together.

“Were you worried about me?” He laughs when he feels Ciel go tense, when he huffs and his face turns sour in annoyance. 

“I wasn’t worried,” Ciel says to the floor. He sounds so pathetic that Sebastian can’t help the cruel laugh that escapes his teeth. The priest leans in until his lips are brushing over the shell of the younger’s ear.

“You’re sweet when you want to be, huh?” He whispers. Sebastian presses a thankful kiss into his cheek. Ciel finally releases a shaking, stuttering breath.


	6. Un Oignon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian can't speak French for shit.

If looks could kill, Sebastian would be dead on the floor and not butchering the French language. Ciel stared at the back of his head, lip curling in annoyance as he listened to the priest quietly talk away to himself, in the ugliest accent he’d ever heard. The sound offended Ciel so much he’d abandoned his cigarette, now ashed to oblivion as it dangled uselessly in his hand.

“ _Oignon… Poivre…_ ” Sebastian muttered, dicing an onion in quick, practiced cuts. He repeated the words over and over, in his low, handsome voice. He added the oignon to the simmering pan and smoothed his hands over his shirt. Ciel saw him smile to himself and he sighed again, loud, until the priest looked over his shoulder at him.

“Don’t pronounce the g,” Ciel explained, as if it didn’t bother him - but _god_ it did. Sebastian’s eyes widened. His cheeks darkened and he smiled sheepishly.

“Oh,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Ciel grit his teeth, swallowed dryly as the man smiled in gratitude. He was so hot, the poor French was practically forgivable.

“Oi- _non_ ,” the priest muttered. _Practically_. Ciel sighed, dropped the crumpled corpse of his cigarette out the window and stalked over to the kitchen, snatching an unpeeled onion off the counter. He leaned one hand on the counter, tilted his head back until Sebastian was staring at him.

“Oignon,” he said real slow, opening his mouth so the priest could watch the way his tongue rolled in his mouth. Sebastian’s throat bobbed and he nodded, embarrassed. Ciel tossed him the onion.

“Oignon…” Sebastian repeated. Better, but not good enough. When Ciel sighed the priest’s shoulders dropped. He was losing confidence, his eyes darted across Ciel’s face, awaiting assistance.

“‘Ere,” Ciel huffed, reaching his hand out to take Sebastian’s warm wrist. He dragged the man’s hand to his mouth, brushed his knuckles over his chin. Sebastian’s arm was limp, trusting. Ciel wanted to smile, but his mouth went dry when he forced Sebastian’s hand to his mouth.

“Like this,” he explained, and took two of the priest’s fingers into his mouth. The sharp, acidic taste of onion hit his tongue. He dropped his jaw, pushed Sebastian’s fingers forward until the tips grazed his teeth. He struggled to keep his tongue flat, felt it flutter against the bottom of the other man’s fingers. He didn’t dare look at Sebastian, whose wrist had gone tense under his touch.

“ _Oig…_ ” he mouthed, moving Sebastian’s fingers to the curl of his tongue. He looked up, saw the priest staring hard at the junction of his fingers and Ciel’s mouth. His cheeks were dark still, eyes unreadable.

“ _Non…_ ” Ciel moved the man’s fingers back, let him feel the word form in his mouth. The taste of onion gave way to a warmer, more familiar taste. He breathed unsteadily. He wanted to close his lips around his fingers, hated waiting with his jaw dropped. His tongue moved, ran under the rough pad of Sebastian’s fingers and the older man twitched his fingers, crooked them in to push down against Ciel’s tounge. The boy hummed, slipped his tongue between the two fingers, closed his mouth around the digits before backing off, a wet pop when he emptied his mouth. He was breathing hard, the priest said nothing. His wet fingers were still by his side.

“ _Oignon_ ,” he said, voice rough. Better. It was better. Ciel looked at his eyes, his mouth, his throat. His wet fingers. He nodded, quick and awkward, and Sebastian lost a little tension from his shoulders.

“Good,” he praised, and left the kitchen to return to the windowsill. He opened his book, stared hard at the words without reading them, until he knew Sebastian had returned to cooking. Only then he dared to look up. Sebastian placed the onion onto the cutting board, the one Ciel had given him, and picked the knife up again. Then, with his other hand still slick with Ciel’s spit, he put his fingers into his mouth and licked them clean.


	7. Le Rêve

Sebastian’s not sure what time it is - but it’s so dark he can only make out the shadow of Ciel crawling through his window.

It’s probably just after midnight, Ciel usually comes over after twelve. He’s always tipsy, red-cheeked and loose-limbed and it never takes long for him to wake Sebastian up. Tonight he’s quieter than usual, the slight dip of the mattress the only indication that he’s in the room.

“Ciel?” The priest’s voice is loud in the room and he hears the boy breath out through his nose. The sound of heavy boots hit the floor, then the bed linen ruffles and Ciel is suddenly right beside him.

“It’s cold outside,” he replies lowly. With his face so close Sebastian can make out the curve of his nose, the fullness of his mouth. His head is on the pillow right next to his, his mouth is half-open and breathing hard. Sebastian can feel the warmth of his shoulder, his body pressed in close. There’s something off. Ciel is being too quiet.

“What’s wrong?” Sebastian whispers, reaching out to tuck Ciel’s stray hair back behind his ear. It’s a reflex action. The boy’s cheek is cold as ice.

“I know you think about me,” he said suddenly. Sebastian’s heart stops dead in his chest, his mouth foul with bile. Ciel has somehow moved closer, his mouth is leaving hot clouds against Sebastian’s chin. He presses a small kiss to his jaw and the priest stutters.

“I d-don’t,” he breathes, one hand hovering uselessly above Ciel’s head. He’s too afraid to touch him, petrified of how the younger has found a way to press their bodies together, hip to hip.

“You do,” he replies confidently. Sebastian can’t see if he’s smiling or grimacing and it terrifies him. Ciel huffs at his silence, it might have been a laugh. His nose drags against the side of Sebastian’s cheek anc what he says next is put right against the shell of the priest’s ear.

“Do you think about _fucking_ me?” He says so casually it’s surreal. Sebastian feels a chill rake up his spine, it dries hot like sweat. His mouth is dry, he can’t speak. Ciel’s hand is playing with the bottom of his shirt, knuckles brushing his tensed stomach.

“No,” Sebastian lies. Ciel makes that breathy, amused sound again. His nails dip into the hem of his sleep pants, scrape in punishment over the untouched skin. Sebastian forgets how to breath.

“Never thought about it?” Ciel continues, voice amused now. His fingers touch lazily, spread apart and brush over coarse hair. There’s a pull beneath Sebastian’s belly button, deep in his gut. It makes him twitch between his legs. He shakes his head again.

“You’re only eighteen,” he tries dumbly, staring at the ceiling. He can feel Ciel tug his pants down a bit, enough to let the cool air touch him where it shouldn’t. He feels Ciel smile against his ear and then he’s gone, momentarily removing the heat of his body so he can sit on top of the priest. His legs spread either side of him, his hips sit back against Sebastian’s. The priest’s useless hands finally come up to grip the boy on his lap.

“Don’t lie to me,” Ciel laughs and it sounds mean. He shifts, presses himself as close to Sebastian as he can. His nose presses into the underside of his jaw and places another kiss there. It’s chaste. So chaste the priest could almost ignore the way his dick was shoved up against the eighteen-year-old’s thigh.

“The way you look at me,” Ciel breathes, eyelashes fluttering. “Like you can’t decide if you want to eat me, or fuck me.”

“Both,” Sebastian mutters quickly without realising it. His hands are holding Ciel so hard he knows the other will bruise. The smaller makes a filthy sound, tightens his fingers in Sebastian’s shirt.

“ _Kiss me_ ,” he whimpers, and out of all the shit he’s heard Ciel say tonight - that’s the sentence that breaks him. His hips jerk, he stifles a groan behind his teeth and then he’s dragging Ciel forward by his hair.

Then suddenly it’s morning, and he’s damp with sweat, bedsheets tangled around his legs. Ciel’s gone. He was never there. The acknowledgment settles heavy in his gut like hunger. Ciel never touched him, but he was achingly hard. It’s impossible to ignore, and if the priest closes his eyes he can still see Ciel in the dark, begging for a kiss.


	8. Quand On S'est Rencontré

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Ciel and Bard met for the very first time.

Bard presses his drink to his face.

The chilled, sweating glass quells the sting of his cheek - a little gift from his wife. He should’ve known better than to kiss her while she was _working_ \- of all things - but like a dumb dog, Bard was always desperate for her attention. She’d slapped him silly in the middle of the kitchen - and Bard had stalked off to his favourite tavern. If he couldn’t have his wife, at least he could have a drink, and a round of cards with his drunk, stupid friends.

One of his friends has a kitten in his lap. Bard watches him drag it over, the petite little thing perched up on his lap and drinking from the same glass as his friend. He has a skinny little waist and hair the colour of a rainy day. The kitten squirms in his friend’s lap, turns around and Bard sees his face. He chokes on his drink.

He’s so fucking pretty. Ruddy cheeks, pouty cherry mouth, and only one impressive eye - which, as Bard tongues the inside of his cheek, is probably a good thing because two of those eyes mighta been enough to knock him out of his seat. The kid - because he looks indecently young - gives him a tight-lipped, sarcastic smile, that lovely eye narrows. _God,_ how rude. Bard gives him a cheeky grin back and raises his chin to his friend.

“Little young, don’t you think?” His friend only laughs, the boy on him frowns. He shoots another scathing look at Bard, eyes travelling over his tattooed skin.

“I’m seventeen,” he mutters and his cheeks light up and Bard feels a tug in his gut, and a cruel, aching need. His friend’s hand are like spiders up and down the skinny thing’s feminine waist. He’s struggling to juggle his drink, and his cards, and the pretty boy, so Bard - being the good friend that he is - strikes a proposal.

“Wager him,” he demands. He’s grinning, everyone is having a good time, but he’s serious. The longer he looks, the more he needs the kitten on _his_ lap. His friend tells him he’s _dreaming_ \- says he’ll _never_ win, and then idiot bets the little kitten on his next hand. The boy watches the game, that stunning eye half-shut in boredom, taking the last of his keeper’s drink. Every now and then he shot an annoyed glare at Bard, and it only makes the Chef more determined. No one’s really surprised when the tattooed blonde wins - because his friends are all stupid, _and well_ \- Bard is the best.

“Come on kitten.” He pats his lap, tilts his head, raises his eyebrow. The indignant kid gives a look to Bard’s friend but the idiot is so drunk all he can do is shrug, and look mournfully at the way the boy stands and goes over to the blonde. He puts his knees on the chair the Chef sits in, and then perches his little ass on his lap. The blonde puts an arm around him because the kitten looks dangerous and he doesn’t want to cause any trouble. He squeezes the kids little belly.

“Gimme your drink,” he says, _so fucking rude_. Bard swallows, wants to knock the kid down a peg. He settles for digging his fingers real rough into the flesh above his hip.

“Gimme a kiss,” Bard raises his chin for his prize but the kitten’s teeth flash and he jerks away.

“I don’t kiss,” he mumbles. There’s something guarded about him, even after few drinks Bard can see it.  Bard’s disappointed - knocked back from a kiss twice in one night. He mutters _okay kitten_ , into his dark hair and the gorgeous thing keens away from him.

“Don’t call me that,” he grunts. He has dangerous little nails on the ship inked into Bard’s bicep. It makes the Chef laugh.

“Okay _princess_ ,” he settles - the kid laments. He hands over his drink and the baby doll downs it, eye seething meanly - right through the glass and at the smitten blonde.

* * *

He takes him up to the bland, white-washed hotel rooms and the little thing keeps that bored, proud expression up the whole time. Like he’s too good for the tavern, and like he’s too good for Bard. The Chef thinks that’s probably true, as he draws the little thing close and places a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the back of his neck.

His name is Ciel. He tells him, as he tries to disguise the tremble in his voice, as Bard unbuttons his shirt and scrapes his nails on the boy’s ribcage. He tells him, so he’ll stop smothering pet names on him but it doesn’t work. It’s funny how he was so rude-mouthed, so nasty to him in front of his friends - but now he has him alone in the hotel room, Ciel is so pink across the face he looks just as slapped as Bard is. 

He can’t insult him when his lip is trembling. He can’t refuse the stubble-rough kisses to his stomach when his hands are twisted in his own hair. Bard’s never been with a male whore - never met one before. Never met anyone like Ciel, who blushes like a virgin while simultaneously getting on his knees like he was born to be on them. He makes Bard feel like a man.

Then, when he lays him on his back, and fucks into him - he realises he’s made a huge mistake. Ciel clings to him, rakes his nails into the short blonde cut of his hair, squeezes his little thighs to his ribs and starts making these noises that at first the Chef thinks are an act. He knows he’s fucked up because Ciel’s pretty eye rolls back into his head, he starts talking nonsense, he can’t do anything but make those fucked up, wounded moans like Bard’s the best fuck he’s ever had, and Bard can feel his ego swelling with his orgasm but Ciel gets there first - untouched, so hard that the noises stop.

Bard knows he’s made a mistake because Ciel’s got tears in that eye, and his hands are shaking as the Chef doesn’t skip a beat and keeps fucking him, he looks so pretty, he’s never felt so good in his life. He knows he never wants anything again, other than this kid, pinned beneath him, making him feel like the world’s greatest lover - he doesn’t care if it’s true or not but Ciel’s thighs are still twitching and Bard knows he’s grinning that shit-eating smile because now the kid is glaring again..

“You’re something, _huh_ kitten?” His thrusts are erratic, he’s gripping Ciel’s little hips so hard that he knows he’s gonna damage him. “Really something, baby.” He loves how the boy’s face screws up at the nickname, and then Bard’s cheek is aflame with another slap - but it’s enough to push him over and he realises, as he comes into the prettiest thing in Paris, that he doesn’t mind when _Ciel_ slaps him.


	9. The Switch (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought it would be cool to re-write a part of LPM, written from the perspective that Sebastian was an American-immigrant prostitute, and Ciel was a young French priest.
> 
> If you like it you can come chat to me on Tumblr about it! -  
> bun-o-ween.tumblr.com

Sebastian took Bard’s finger with a grunt.

He screwed shut his eyes, tried to stifle the sound he made as the blonde's finger fucked into him, lip raw from being chewed at. He threw back his head and breathed hard out his nose, both fists buried so tight in the sheets he  _ shook _ .

“Easy, princess.”

The noirette shuddered, on hands and knees, Bard’s arm hooked under his waist to keep him from falling. His other hand fucked a second finger into his tight hole, a smirk crawling onto the blonde's stubbled jaw as the prostitute swore.

“F-fuck you,” Sebastian breathed.

Bard ducked down and sucked a kiss into his throat, rolling his tongue against the sweat that gathered on the American's skin.

“That’s right baby,” he muttered against his ear, and huffed when he felt the prostitute clamp down on his fingers.

Sebastian turned his cheek, nudged his nose against the stubble on Bard’s jaw. The blonde grit his teeth, gentle lips he couldn’t kiss so close he could almost taste them. He rolled his tongue over his teeth and fingered his frustration into the man.

“Don’t call me that,” Sebastian sobbed.

His nails raked into the snake tattoo on Bard’s arm, welts lost under inked scales. The blonde hitched Sebastian up higher, moved him up so he could fuck his own cock between trembling thighs.

“You don’t like being called baby,  _ baby? _ ”

Sebastian hiccupped. He shook his head, black strands sticking to his brow. He tried to look pissed off – narrowed carmine eyes over his shoulders, but only succeeded in making himself look prettier.

“I don’t want your  _ fingers _ ,” he seethed, closing his eyes as colour rose to his cheeks.

Bard laughed. His teeth nipped the top-most notch of Sebastian’s spine, his free hand splayed against a firm, flat navel.

“You sure, princess?”

He crooked his fingers, delighted in the hungry sound Sebastian made. His hair stuck to his mouth, his warm back pressed close to Bard’s chest. The blonde combed back his fringe so he could watch his eyes cloud over.

Sebastian never faked it. Bard could tell. He'd been with enough prostitutes to recognise feigned pleasure when he saw it. Sebastian was authentic, and desperate, and could cum on two fingers like the whore he advertised himself as.

“Tell me what you want.”

His princess shuddered, and Bard dropped his free hand to entwined their fingers. He kissed his neck again, nuzzled his nose into firm shoulders.

Sebastian refused to speak. His eyes fluttered shut when Bard crooked his hand again, felt the man back up against his thick knuckles. 

“You want this?”

Bard nestled closer, nudged his cock between Sebastian’s legs. His fingers slid out of him and he wiped the slick across the back of his thigh just to hear him hiss. He rubbed his dick back and forth, chewing at his own moan when the tip caught a slick, wet hole.

Sebastian answered with a whine.

“Please,” he said – very softly.

Bard huffed, and tightened his arm around the whore's waist. He dropped his jaw and rolled his tongue into Sebastian’s ear. He tried to squirm out of the slick kiss, tried to back down against Bard’s thick, patient cock instead.

“Please!” He sobbed again, grabbing Bard’s arm so tight it hurt.

He opened his mouth to cry out – but he fell silent when the chef got his cock inside him. 

His brain shut down inch by inch. He was only capable of wounded noises, breathing out his nose because his mouth was thick with moans. Bard's eyes rolled back as he bottomed out, biting his own tongue so he wouldn’t kiss Sebastian on his dirty mouth.

“Sit back on it,” he grunted.

He took a thick handful of Sebastian’s thigh and squeezed until it jumped against his calloused palm. He fucked forward, gave him one good, rough thrust that knocked the whore down on his belly. Sebastian curled his back and took it to the root, mouth open, eyes closed.

“Not so mouthy when I get my cock in you, huh?”

Sebastian’s cheeks were dark, the muscles in his shoulder bunched. He tried to grimace, tried to roll his hips back against the heavy blonde.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he breathed, looking simultaneously pissed off and fucked out. “It ain’t that big.”

His accent got sloppy when they fucked, mouth rude and curled up into a condescending smirk. Bard played into the trap, dug his nails into narrow hips and thrust so hard it made Sebastian choke.

“Sorry baby,” Bard groaned. “What was that?”

He dropped his hand between the whore's thighs, ignored his throbbing cock. He went further back, grazed the pad of his finger against the stretched out rim. He dug a little, stuffed his finger between his cock and the abused flesh, and shuddered when Sebastian convulsed.

“That’s it,” he mouthed, cock throbbing. “Show me how you want it.”

Sebastian keened, curled his spine back and bucked. Bard’s cock slipped out, the handsome whore moaning at the loss in a way that reinforced Bard’s validity as a man.

He shoved his tongue back in Sebastian’s ear, grabbed a fistful of his hair so he couldn’t turn away or fight it. He kissed the shell, dragged his tongue over his open jaw, fingers clenched as he fucked him back, and back, and back on his dick, feeding nasty sounds into the sheets.

Bard grit his teeth and bit a wound into his throat, sucked the salt off Sebastian’s neck so he wouldn’t force him down into the sheets and fuck his tongue into his mouth instead.

……………………………………………………………………………

 

It was snowing when Ciel crossed the bridge to the south side of town.

He tied his hair into a messy bun and wore plain clothes, but he still felt out of place. He was nervous too – the loud nightlife on the far side of the bridge unlike anything the young priest had ever experienced before.

The streets were lined in bars and brothels and patrons spilling out of every doorway. The miasma of sweat and perfume permeated the air, and as the young priest made his way down the crowded, snow-thick street – one tavern in particular stood out to him.

The walls were devil red. Inside the pub was covered floor-to-ceiling in nightmarish, racy paintings. Ciel entered, pressed himself to the walls, avoiding the stamp of boots and clumsy bodies. It was so loud he couldn’t think, the smell of alcohol sticking to every surface of the room.

He felt the wall crinkle behind him and when he turned his head he gasped. He found himself face-to-face with a wall of pornographic photographs. Women in sheer stockings spreading their legs, others posing topless. Ciel knew he was blood red with embarrassment, and his stomach turned in disgust. He went to turn away from the photographs until one in particular caught his eye.

At first he didn’t recognise it as Sebastian. He was younger – maybe Ciel's age, in his early twenties. He was a little smaller, and the only tell-tale sign that it was him were the signature smirk on his bowed head. Beside from the smile that he wore, he was completely naked.

The priest stared in horror.

Ciel had never seen another naked man. Beside marble statues, and crude sketches in historical books, the young man had only witnessed himself – so he could not say with certainty that Sebastian was  _ larger _ than normal. It was more of an animal instinct.

He could tell Sebastian was huge, on all accounts.

Without lingering too long on the compulsion, Ciel snatched the photo from the wall. He shoved it in his coat and pushed his way over to the bar.

……………………………………………………………………………

 

It didn’t take much to get Ciel drunk.

Two glasses of spirits and his fingers tingled. He ordered a third and caught glimpse of something from the corner of his eye.

Sebastian was perched on the arm of an old chair, waving alcohol back and forth so fervently it spilled. He was loud, speaking in French so horribly accented that the priest could not decipher it – but it sounded like a joke.

Ciel's stomach turned as the men gathered around him hollered in laughter. In the chair Sebastian perched against was a blonde, tattooed man - his arm snaked possessively around the other man’s waist. The noirette didn’t mind it, let thick fingers flirt with the hem of his untucked shirt as he laughed and told another horrid joke.

His laughter filled the bar and Ciel found himself insufferably jealous.

Sebastian was charismatic and charming. It was clear that everyone loved him, that the patrons were all moths gathered around his flame. The prostitute made Ciel feel plain in comparison, and he felt himself sulk the longer he stared at the popular American.

He downed his third drink as the blonde got up to leave, and Sebastian planted a sloppy, drunk kiss against his jaw. Ciel stared so hard his eye fogged over. He willingly let his vision blur as the kiss turned into several. He didn’t even notice Sebastian was looking back at him until he slumped to the side and almost fell off his seat.

The man smiled slow and purposeful.

He gave Ciel that look - the dangerous, all-knowing smile he saved just for the priest. With his arms still slung over the blonde’s shoulder he locked eyes with the other and opened his mouth to lay more kisses to a tattooed neck. His tongue, petal pink, rolled over the thick flesh. He didn’t take his eyes off Ciel as his teeth grazed over the other’s throat.

It was Ciel who crumbled first, forcing himself to look down and stare a hole into his whiskey instead.

The laughter around him turned to droning. When Ciel looked up into the mirror behind the bar he could see his cheeks were flushed with liquor and his hair was slipping loose of it’s bun. He became so fixated with his flustered appearance that he flinched when large hands gripped his hips from behind.

“Uh-oh,” whispered a low voice in his ear. “You look lost, baby.”

Ciel closed his eyes and braced his arms against the bar. The warmth pressing into him from behind was all-consuming. He used all of his strength to turn his head and glare at Sebastian.

“I’m not lost,” he muttered.

The American leaned in and smelt his hair, gave him that slow and amused smile once again.

“Oh?” He hummed. “You’re drunk. That’s bad, Ciel. You’re bad.”

Ciel closed his eye as hot breath fanned over his neck. 

_ Like a dog _ , he told himself - tried to illustrate Sebastian as something undesirable in his head, but his brain kept flitting back to the photograph currently hiding in his vest pocket.

“I’m not drunk,” he blurted.

“I didn’t think priests could drink  _ or _ lie,” laughed Sebastian.

His hands curled around each side of Ciel’s waist, and with a sudden shock of propriety, Ciel batted them away and sat up ramrod straight.

“Don’t touch me like that!” He gasped.

Sebastian’s nose brushed the nape of his neck but his hands withdrew. The man sat on the barstool next to him and leaned his head into his hand. He assessed Ciel’s entire body, lingering for a long time on his mouth.

“Checking up on me?” He smiled.

Ciel swallowed. He chewed at his mouth as if to hide it from the prostitute, but it only resulted in a hungrier gaze. The priest picked up his glass and took a mouthful, only to realise the glass was empty. He put it on the bar too loudly, embarrassing himself.

“I come ‘ere all the time,” he lied again, cheeks impossibly warm.

Sebastian snorted, smiling so wide his teeth showed. His hair fell over his brow, a dark strand between pretty eyes.

“Then I must be disturbing you,” he smirked.

He brushed back the strand of hair and stood, looking back towards the rowdy table of men. A stab of panic struck Ciel’s heart and he grabbed Sebastian’s arm. 

“Don’t go,” he said.

His heart hammered at the thought. His drunken begging softened Sebastian’s face, that teasing laughter filled his ears once more.

“Buy me,” he said to Ciel.

The priest laughed too, sudden and nervous. He stared at the wall covered in pornography and blinked furiously. He’d made a mistake in coming to the bar. It had been a horrible idea.

“Why on earth w-would I ever do that?”

Everything he said seemed to make Sebastian grin. He hated it, felt like he was being toyed with. But the slow smirk that ate away at the whore’s jawline reduced him to a sweating, trembling version of himself. He was rendered immobile as the tall, broad man pressed up against him once more.

“Could fuck you so good you cried,” Sebastian whispered.

Another horrified laugh escaped Ciel’s mouth.

“I think that’s highly unlikely.”

While he was preoccupied smothering the embarrassing noises coming from his lips, Ciel hadn’t noticed the finger curling into his belt loop. It tugged, and his heart sunk into his churning stomach. He put his hands on Sebastian’s shoulders to keep him at bay, but once his palms met the firm, warm muscle of his pectoral muscles, they glued in place.

“If you’re not going to have me, that gentleman over there will.”

The smile was gone from Sebastian’s voice. He glanced over to a scruffy brunette amongst the other men. His eyes were tracing every one of the prostitute’s movements, and it made the young priest’s skin crawl.

“That guy?”

The noirette nodded and Ciel sighed. He took one hand off the hard chest in front of him and withdrew his wallet. He emptied it on the bar, a few coins spilling out and spinning until they laid flat on the wood.

“‘Ow long does this get me?”

“For that much? I’ll go down on you.”

Ciel frowned, staring at the stack of coins. 

“What’s that mean?”

Sebastian leaned in close enough for his lips to brush Ciel’s hair and he whispered something so licentious to his ear that the young man flinched. He knocked his empty glass over and it shattered on the floor. He felt sick all over. He felt hot.

He fumbled over his words so long that the scruffy brunette beat him to it. He sauntered over and grabbed Sebastian’s shoulder, spun him around and muttered something low into his ear. It made the whore go red, and Ciel got down from his stool to take a step closer.

“What did ‘e say to you?”

The stranger regarded Ciel like an insect. His arm went around Sebastian’s waist, but the noirette brushed him off.

“Easy now,” he warned, and glanced over to the clock that ticked soundlessly by the door. “Your hour hasn’t started yet.”

The man ignored him, still glaring at Ciel as he encroached into Sebastian’s personal space. He took a long, perverse smell of his hair and groped lewdly at his front.

“C’mon,” he slurred. “Ain’t like whores to be picky.”

Something about the word rubbed Ciel the wrong way. He tried to stand as tall as possible, but he was much smaller than either man. The liquor gave him height, however, and he didn’t think twice about shoving the brunette in the shoulder until he let go of Sebastian.

“I believe ‘e said no,” he growled.

Both Sebastian and the stranger blinked in surprise. Ciel pointed his finger at the scruffy man and bared his teeth. 

“Don’t you touch him again.”

For a second Ciel was proud of himself. It was short-lived, as the next second the stranger surged forward and shoved him so hard his back slammed against the edge of the bar. The force of it knocked the wind from him. He whined, sliding down onto his knees like a child.

“Little slut,” he heard the brunette hiss.

Sebastian snapped.

……………………………………………………………………………

 

Ciel flinched.

_ Slut _ . It felt like a slap to the face. He saw the way Sebastian’s eyes flashed and his jaw tensed. Ciel opened his mouth to shout at him but it was too late. He grabbed the stranger and shoved him so hard that the brunette hit the floor with a  _ thud _ .

“Bastian! Stop!” 

Ciel rushed in and smacked the back of the prostitute’s head, tried to push him back with his little fists, but it only spurred him. Sebastian grunted. His hand went for the brunette’s neck, brushed Ciel away like an ant. The stranger kicked. One fist came up into Sebastian’s gut and he stumbled back. Bar stools scrapped across the floor as the man shoved Sebastian back into the bar, glasses hitting the floor with pops of shattered crystal.

“Get your  _ dog _ off me!” The man screamed, thrashing like a fish as the prostitute throttled him over the bar. 

Ciel wheezed as he grabbed a chunk of Sebastian’s hair, pulling so hard he tugged some out. The noirette growled, dropping the stranger, who slithered to the ground. The brunette scrambled up but Sebastian stepped on his chest, hunching over to start again. Ciel felt like he couldn’t breath, chest rising and falling so quick he couldn’t yell at them.

The click of a gun made both men stop. Ciel watched them back up, noses bleeding as the bartender aimed a gun at the pair of them. The teenager gripped the bar so he wouldn’t faint, vision clouding and room swimming. The two other man were panting. Sebastian’s head was bleeding. The stranger looked worse.

“Get out,” the bartender grit. 

His shoulders squared, slicked hair bright in the lamp light overhead. He nudged the gun towards the door. 

“I said  _ get out! _ ”

Ciel turned on his boots and fled, his chest screaming for air.

…………………………………………………………………………

 

As soon as he stepped outside Ciel began to wheeze.

It was too cold. He was too upset. The fresh air flooded his lungs and his throat tightened. He took three staggering steps through the thick snow before he stopped, hunched over with his hands on his knees. He sucked in a sticky breath, and coughed so hard his vision blurred.

“What the  _ hell _ is wrong with you?”

Sebastian’s voice came from behind him, followed by furious wading through the snow. Ciel closed his eye and inhaled, his arms shaking. 

“Leave me alone,” he whispered as loud as he could.

Sebastian ignored him, charging straight for him like a frenzied horse. Ciel forced himself to keep moving forward but his held felt strangely light.

“No!” The noirette yelled after him. “I was  _ working _ , Ciel. You can’t just pick and choose my clients - don’t you know how hard it is for me to find jobs?!”

Ciel whipped around and balled his fist like he might plow it through Sebastian’s nose. His hand tremored, he unfurled it to point an accusing finger at the furious prostitute.

“Why would  _ you _ want to sleep with a man like that?” He cried, throat raw. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

Sebastian’s nose was bleeding. His forehead too, red oozing down a gash on his brow. His shoulders rose and fell with monstrous breathes, and his own hands were in tight fists either side of him.

“I don’t care about smart,” the noirette hissed. “I care about feeding myself.”

Ciel opened his mouth to argue again, but his throat caught on a cough. He whined, rubbing at his throat. He coughed again and again, over and over until it wiped the angry look off Sebastian’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

The anger faded from his voice. Ciel glared up at him through his eyelashes. Everything burnt. He struggled so desperately for air that it was the only thing either of them could hear.

“I’ve got asthma,” he wheezed.

Then he coughed so hard his knees buckled, and he pitched forward in the snow. Sebastian surged forward and caught him before he crumbled, supporting his weight with infuriating ease. Ciel’s boots left the ground as his head slumped against a warm shoulder. He was hitched up against an equally warm chest and he curled toward it like a child.

“What do I do?” Sebastian whispered, failing to mask his panic.

Ciel breathed in a chestful of his cologne, nudged his nose into the fabric of the man’s shirt. He smelt like sunshine. He tried to speak, but his tongue was thick. His sole interest was on his breathing, on forcing air in and out of his lungs.

Hot tears dripped down each side of his face. He heard Sebastian speak again, just a murmur against his trembling body. But Ciel couldn’t speak, could barely raise his head. He coughed again, and let Sebastian carry him away from the wrong side of town.

……………………………………………………………………………

 

Sebastian couldn’t stop the praise coming out of his mouth. 

“Good boy,” he mumbled and squeezed Ciel tighter. 

He felt him shudder in his arms and start coughing again. 

“I’ve got you,” he cooed, rubbing his thumbs over his back. 

Ciel’s head felt so heavy, limbs limp, mouth unguarded. Sebastian mumbled soft, sweet nothings to the boy in his arms, trudging dutifully through the snow. He headed for his apartment, the stairs creaking as he carried the both of them upstairs.

He laid Ciel down on the faded sofa by the window and brushed his hair out of his face. The young man’s cheeks were bright pink, his mouth pale. His eye was open, eyelashes fluttering. Tears dried on his cheek but didn’t stem. They seeped into his collar, smeared against the touch of Sebastian’s hand.

“What can I do?” He begged.

Ciel drew in a rattling, desperate breath. His back arched off the sofa, his ribs rose and fell through the material of his shirt.

“Need to c-calm down,” the priest whispered.

He coughed so hard it made him sob. His face crumpled in agony, his small hands curling into the fabric of the chair. The line of his eyelashes was heavy with fresh tears, his lower lip wet with saliva.

“Can you talk to me?” He said in the smallest voice. “About Montana?”

“I miss it,” Sebastian blurted. “I miss home so much. It’s so different from here, Ciel. I miss how big it was, and I miss how it smelt.”

Ciel didn’t fuss as Sebastian smoothed his hair back. The little priest leaned in closer, grew silent with great interest.

“What did it smell like?”

“Smelt like snow and cold air,” Sebastian shrugged. “Like pine trees and horses.  _ Fuck _ , I really miss the horses.”

His cheeks burned at how fondly he spoke but Ciel’s face lit up all the same. He didn’t chastise Sebastian for swearing, perhaps still as drunk as the prostitute was.

“I wish I could ride one,” the priest admitted.

He closed his eye and drew in a deep breath. He hadn’t coughed for a good minute or so, and Sebastian felt a tightness leave his shoulders.

“You’re so clever,” he rambled. “You’d be  _ so _ good at it, Ciel.”

The corner of Ciel’s mouth curled up, eye still shut. It made Sebastian smile too. The dried blood on his face crumpled as his mouth widened.

“Everything here is so cramped,” he continued.

He allowed himself to trail his hand down the small of Ciel’s back, the same way his father would touch a new filly. The boy opened his eye to look up at him like the horses did - like he couldn’t figure out if the touch was trustworthy, or if he should kick him and run.

“Back home there were mountains and fields further than I could see. My daddy called it a drover’s paradise.”

Ciel swallowed, pressed his cheek closer to the couch, but didn’t shrug Sebastian’s hand. 

“What does your father do?”

Sebastian frowned. His hand rested in the dip of the teenager’s back, fingers flirting with his untucked shirt. 

“He breaks horses.” 

Ciel’s fingers played with the blanket draped across the sofa, eye clearer with intrigue. He curled closer to the noirette who kneeled on the floor beside the sofa.

“‘Ow do you break a horse?”

“With force,” Sebastian said. “Relentless, stubborn force, until it submits to you.” 

He frowned, and Ciel frowned too.

“You disagree, no?” 

Sebastian stroked Ciel’s temple, trembling with the precious skin beneath his hand.

“I think you should earn the horse’s trust, and it will submit willingly. Tamed, not broken.” 

Ciel swallowed. He searched Sebastian’s face for something else. The priest felt exposed and he couldn’t bear to look into that eye.

“Why did you come ‘ere?” He whispered. “You should have stayed and tamed ‘orses.”

Sebastian smiled, shoulders falling. He shook his head, still toying with the soft grey strands that fell either side of Ciel’s face.

“I couldn’t stay there,” he mumbled. “My daddy, he - He just… He made me feel so small. Maybe I made a mistake coming here.” He laughed joylessly. “Have you ever made a mistake that big?”

Ciel watched him for a while, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Sometimes,” he said very quietly, “I think I should not ‘ave joined the church.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened at the confession. His breath hitched. Even his fingers stilled against Ciel’s cheek. The boy stared back at him, mouth wet and pink, and pretty. Sebastian went to speak, but the boy sat up quickly on his elbows.

“Don’t say anything,” he rushed, colour leaving his face. “I shouldn’t ‘ave said that. If Adrian knew I said that ‘e would never let me see you again.”

Sebastian’s heart sunk. He nodded, his whole body feeling too warm. He shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. He couldn’t stop the wetness that filled his eyes, the way he blinked to keep the tears at bay. He rubbed at his cheek and felt blood stick to his hand. Ciel reached out and started tucking Sebastian’s hair back into place like it would help the mess he was in.

“I won’t say anything,” he promised.

Ciel nodded, so close to Sebastian that he could feel the warmth of his skin. He smoothed back more gossamer hair, let his hand linger too long in the thick of it. Maybe the priest was as drunk as he was, for he tilted his head and let the man cradle his cheek.

He didn’t even flinch as Sebastian untied his eyepatch. Both eyes opened and blinked back at him, as unsettling as they were beautiful.

“If I lost you it would kill me,” Ciel said.

Sebastian's heart skipped a beat. The boy stared back at him with the same glassy melancholy in both eyes. He wriggled closer on the sofa and curled his fingers into the sleeve of Sebastian’s blood-stained shirt.

“You’re really drunk,” Sebastian mumbled, unwilling to embrace anything Ciel had said in the past few moments.

It was too surreal. It would hurt too much when the boy sobered and took back his fond words. Still, Sebastian blushed. He felt equal parts stupid and intoxicated. Ciel’s hand went for his cheek and his thumb traced the line of blood that leaked from his nose.

“This is my fault,” he said to the noirette, shifting even closer. “I’m so sorry, Bastian.”

He felt Ciel wrap his arms around his shoulders and draw him closer, up against his chest in the gentlest of embraces. It was the softest touch Sebastian had ever felt. It rendered him motionless, scared to even breath lest the moment fractured and he realised it was just a dream.

“I forgive you,” he said against Ciel’s heart.

The boy blinked down at him, then pressed a soft kiss to the cut on his forehead.

Time stopped. Sebastian’s heart swelled. When the priest withdrew his lips were red with the noirette’s blood.

Sebastian suddenly became aware that he was drowning. He was in too deep and he couldn’t escape. Ciel didn’t take his terrifying eyes off him as his tongue darted out to lick the thick blood off his lips. 

Ciel was an ocean, and he’d been consumed by him.

  
  



End file.
